


Ambience

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 15:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3072605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takao has become rather fond of the sound of his boyfriend yelling at the washing machine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambience

Some people like white noise in the background while they read, the sound of traffic outside or the rain or some kind of ambience. Some people are like Midorima and have to have a certain kind of music on a certain volume in the background (Takao has yet to find something that Midorima is not finicky about even after years of friendship) and some others like dead silence. Takao himself has become rather fond of the sound of his boyfriend yelling at the washing machine—it’s loud, but there’s something not totally unpleasant about it (besides, if he couldn’t take loud there’s no way he would have lasted more than a day, if that long, in a relationship with Miyaji).

He turns the page.

“Goddamn washer, tying my jeans in a knot!” There’s the sound of fabric whipping through the air as Miyaji is no doubt trying to shake out the tangle.

Takao shakes his head and smiles. Miyaji’s particular brand of anger and disgust at the small things that make his life just a little bit more difficult has perhaps become one of the most endearing things about him. Maybe Takao’s just gotten sappier by the ripe old age of twenty-three (as Miyaji’s brother puts it—rather, he calls the both of them lovesick saps and Miyaji ribs him about still being single and they both threaten to put each other into a headlock) but whatever it is, it’s not bad. It feels quite pleasant to be in love—maybe the sweetness will have gone rancid or stale years down the line, but Takao kind of doubts it.

Several minutes later, Miyaji comes into the living room, still muttering swears under his breath. He flops down next to Takao on the couch and leans against Takao.

“Who won, you or the washer?”

Miyaji flicks his forehead. “Oi.”

“So the washer?” Takao grins. “Kiyo-chan, you’re losing your touch.”

Miyaji sits up and scowls. “You try dealing with it every week. See if you have any sanity left.”

His hand is still curled around Takao’s hip, his arm warm against Takao’s lower back. He smells kind of like laundry detergent—if this isn’t domestic bliss, Takao’s not sure what qualifies. He scoots closer and leaves his book on the arm of the couch.

* * *

The clouds are grey and ominous, heavy with rain or snow or sleet (at this temperature it could be anything) but they head out anyway. It’s not like it’s going to get better today, or probably tomorrow and they’ll be inside shopping anyway. There’s a lot to be said for wasting the day away on the couch, folding the laundry when it’s dry and then taking a nap in an awkward position and waking up all stiff and feeling kind of disgusting and disoriented, especially on a day like today, but they’ve been meaning to go shopping for a while now.

And it’s nice to hold hands in the cold and see their breath crystalize in front of their faces like miniature snow globes, lean against the train doors while it moves almost silently on the track—the stillness of the cold air seems to suppress all sound and even Miyaji has too much respect to disturb it. But when they get off the train at their stop, the sound suddenly starts again like they’d been wearing half-broken headphones that suddenly got jostled or twisted into just the right position again and are now blaring sound at a louder volume than they’re prepared for. Takao grasps Miyaji’s hand as he forges through the crowd and toward the exit.

They split off when they reach the shops, Takao to the card and game shop and Miyaji to the music and idol fan stores. Takao watches him walk down the alleyway, wondering if he should whistle appreciatively at Miyaji’s ass—but not this time. He’ll just look until Miyaji turns the corner and then head off.

The card shop’s familiar musty, old-paper smell is comforting to Takao’s nose. It’s been too long since he’s been here, too long since he’s perused the shelves and flipped through binders sticky with suspicious foreign substances and looked through thick clear plastic at overpriced cards that he could probably fit into his deck and rare ones he’d never use but are fascinating nonetheless, cards he’s never seen and whose existence he’s questioned. But first he steps up to the counter to look at the new arrivals. The teenager behind the desk glares at him but Takao deflects his gaze, peers through the hot glass countertop—it’s all basic stuff, either cards he already has or ones he’s never been interest in or had and sold.

He ends up buying a couple of new booster packs; at worst they’ll have cards he can resell for a few yen and at best he’ll figure out how to work one or two into his deck to shake it up if nothing else. The teenager still glares as Takao exits, bell on the door ringing behind him.

Miyaji’s waiting for him under the awning, and it’s already dark out. The lights from the window make his hair glow like it’s some kind of light itself. It’s cold, though, and the wind is starting to pick up; Takao stuffs the trading cards in his pocket along with his hands, balled into fists.

“Dumbass. You didn’t bring a scarf, did you?”

Takao huffs. Miyaji takes off his own and twirls it half-roughly around Takao’s neck; it’s warm and a little bit scratchy and it smells like Miyaji, fruity and spicy and sweet.

“Aren’t you going to get cold?”

Miyaji waves his hand dismissively. “As if. I’m bigger than you; I’ll be fine.”

His logic is as sound as always. And sure enough, after they’ve gone a few blocks he puts his hood up and after a few more he’s shivering and Takao grabs his hand and stuffs them together into his warm pocket, the heat from his hip radiating through and warming both of them. Miyaji doesn’t say anything, but his stubbornness is perhaps the reason why Takao loves him the most—although there are many, many other reasons, too.

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on tumblr


End file.
